


Hunter's Path

by firefright



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Gotham by Gaslight (2018), DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Bounty Hunters, Canon-Typical Violence, Court of Owls, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 12:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16475828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright
Summary: After being hired by mysterious benefactors to hunt down a killer in Gotham, Slade comes across something he never expected to find. A Talon, alone, and run away from his court.





	Hunter's Path

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my second SladeRobin Week fic for 2018, this time combining the Day 7 prompts Gotham by Gaslight and Court of Owls (because I will never pass up the opportunity to write Talon!Dick). Hope you all enjoy!

They give him photographs of the crime scenes after he accepts the job, and Slade spends hours studying them before he even thinks of leaving his hotel room for the streets of the city; focusing on everything from the positions of the victims to the placement and volume of the injuries inflicted to kill them.

Know your enemy is always the first rule of any good op, and grainy as they are, the black and white images have plenty to say about the murderer Gotham’s elite have hired Slade to hunt down. They’re highly skilled and efficient in the extreme, in a way he wouldn’t expect anyone to be outside the military or certain illegal militia groups. There are no defence wounds on the victims, no signs of a struggle before the single stab wounds that ended their lives were inflicted, which suggests that the culprit was quick, and quite possibly not seen right up until the very last moment of the victim’s life, if at all.

Certainly, the police and witness reports from the scene back that assessment up. No screams or struggles were heard by servants at the time of the murders, and the locks on the doors were all unbroken. In fact, the only point of entry that could have been used by the murderer in each case was a single window, left hanging wide open at the time the bodies were discovered.

Normally, breaking and entering by a window for most any crime wouldn’t be considered all that unusual. This time, though, it most certainly was, considering that each one was three storeys up or higher.

To get up there, his killer must be either an exceptionally good climber, or graced with the gift of flight.

Given that he’s a firm non-believer in the possibility of ghosts, Slade has to go with the former.

Ex-military perhaps? A sailor used to clambering about on ships? Or perhaps a former chimney sweep or window cleaner. There are any number of possibilities to consider, and some are more likely than others when combining the killer’s evident agility with the surgical precision of their cuts. Highly-trained or highly-educated, possibly both.

Eventually, Slade decides he’s learned everything he possibly can from photographs and police reports. It’s time for him to hit the streets.

He puts on the heay duster coat he wore for his bounty hunting out west. Long and large enough to hide a pistol and heavy hunting knife, and — should the occasion arise for it — made of leather thick enough to turn aside attacks from smaller blades. His boots are heavy and ingrained with miles of sand and dirt; the stink of horse and man. The gloves he leaves off for now, stuffing them into a pocket instead, before turning to give his hat some consideration before choosing to don that as well.

Bowlers and top hats are more the style in a rich east coast city like this one, rather than the wide brim Slade’s has, but given his height and the fact he’s missing an eye, he accepts the fact that he’s probably going to stand out anywhere he goes regardless of what he’s wearing.

Last of all, Slade picks up the cane he bought yesterday as a less obvious weapon to be able to carry openly in the city, locks his hotel room door, and leaves.

 

* * *

 

It’s been a long time since he was last in a city like Gotham. Years of working out in raw, new western states have left him used to open plains, scrappy mountains and deep yawning forests. What settlements he did visit there were never more than large towns, with dirt roads rarely paved and brick buildings only for the rich in comparison to the abundance of wooden ones.

All of it a far cry from the bustling metropolis in which he finds himself now.

The city stinks to his sensitive nose, as do a lot of its people. Horses, carriages and people vie for space on the narrow cobbled streets, and Slade finds himself having to dodge discarded piles of dung and slop left to rot there more than once. It’s almost a relief as he makes it to the wealthier district, where things are cleaner and the presence of actual plants mark the beginning of the class divide.

He doesn’t expect that the killer he’s looking for would actually live so close to his prey, but Slade wants an up and close look at the sites of the murders for himself. There has to be some kind of clue left to find, something the constabulary with their limited way of thinking will have missed.

There have been four killings so far, and Slade heads to the site of the most recent one first. Theodore Miller and his wife Lucille were murdered together in the bedroom of their four storey townhouse three days ago, though either by luck or choice both of their two young children survived.

It’s another pattern Slade has noticed in the killings; no children of the victims — or their servants — are ever harmed. All of which makes him inclined to believe that the motive behind these deaths is personal, rather than the work of someone purely bloodthirsty.

The house as it is now stands empty. The police barriers have been left in front of the gates, but at this point no constables remain on guard outside. Still, Slade spends a solid twenty minutes observing the building from across the street, smoking a cigarette as an excuse for his loitering, before anything else.

Four floors, sheer brick walls with no balconies and little decoration for anyone to grab onto. Yet again, it leads to the question of how the killer got up to the bedroom window without any visible marks from climbing equipment being left behind. Slade eyes the base of the building first before raising his eye upwards, past every window, and eventually to the roof.

Hm, there’s a thought. The buildings here are packed so tightly together, with little to no gap between each one, that wouldn’t be difficult for someone to find a path up elsewhere and then walk along the rooftops to reach the desired house. Then all they would have to do is fasten a rope to the chimney and lower themselves down to the window, or — if they had the balls and enough upper body strength for it — simply hang off the gutter before dropping down to catch the sill.

It’s an idea he thinks is worth checking out, considering none of the police materials he’d been provided had mentioned anything about the roof. They must not have thought to look there, which isn’t surprising really, since most lawmen Slade has none struggled to find their own asses to scratch, let alone stop crime.

No, that was for men like him to do, when their bosses got fed up of waiting for results and put out a bounty on the fugitive’s head.

“Real shame, in’t it?”

Slade taps the ash off the end of his cigarette before turning his head to look at the young woman addressing him. “I’m sorry?” he asks, keeping his tone deceptively mild and inoffensive.

She’s dressed as a maid, with a bucket of water in one hand and a scrubbing brush in the other. Probably sent out from the house Slade’s standing beside to wash the front step, he thinks.

At his question, she nods across the road to the Miller house. “I said, it’s a shame, what happened there.”

Never one to miss an opportunity to gain information, Slade lets his expression turn solemn and sympathetic. “I only heard a little about it. Is it true they were discovered still in their bed?”

“Oh yes,” the girl says, with poorly hidden enthusiasm, “Poor Ruby — Mrs. Miller’s maid, that is, she walked in and found them. Blood all over the sheets and on the floor! Half the street heard her screaming that morning, I tell you.”

“How awful,” Slade says.

“Of course, it’s the children you feel most sorry for. I can only hope they didn’t see any of it, especially after what happened to the Greenford’s the week before. Just imagine, hearing your parents’ friends are dead, then a few days later waking up and this time it’s _your_ ma and pa who’s got it in the neck.”

She doesn’t sound particularly sorry, just eager to gossip.

Slade focuses in, caught in particular by one thing she said, “They were friends? With the Greenford’s?”

“Oh yes, and now I think about it, the Bainbridge’s, too.” Her eyes widen at her own realisation, “Gosh, it just gets worse the more you think about it, doesn’t it? I mean, sure, they weren’t always the nicest bunch, being rich folks and all, but to go out like that… Ooo,” She shivers for dramatic effect, “It just doesn’t bear thinking about.”

The Bainbridge’s were the first victims. An elderly couple and their adult son. The only ones she hasn’t mentioned yet are the Moore’s, but Slade would bet good money they shared that connection as well. Once might be a coincidence, twice on the other hand is a pattern.

Odd then, that his client never saw fit to mention that. Nor did the police reports say anything about it. Hardly seems like a connection they should have missed, not when it could theoretically give an insight into where the killer might strike next.

“Indeed,” he responds dryly, “It’s almost like they had some common enemy.”

“Wouldn’t that be a thing?” the maid comments brightly, “Then the police could just go arrest them easy as. Someone really ought to go tell the commissioner about it.”

Slade snorts. He thinks he’s gone about as far as he can with this girl as a source of information, and just in time too, as from the door of the house she’d emerged from another woman, this one with her hair dark and greying, pokes her head out with a scowl.

“Elsie, I sent you out here to clean the step, not to go gossiping with strange men! Come back here and get to work!”

Elsie pulls a face where the woman can’t see her, “Right you are, miss!” she calls back, then to Slade, “Sorry, sir, duty calls.”

“It’s quite all right.”

As Elsie returns to the house, the woman — who would Slade would bet is the housekeeper — turns her attention to him with narrowed eyes. “And you, what are you doing standing around there?”

“Just stopped for a cigarette,” he answers smoothly, making sure to meet her gaze and maintain eye contact.

The woman’s eyes widen as she notices his eyepatch, “Well then,” she retorts hurriedly, “Finish up and be off with you, before someone gets the wrong idea.”

Slade smirks, and makes a show of taking a last drag before dropping the butt of the cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his bootheel. Only then does he start to walk away.

He still wants to take a look at the rooftop of the Miller house, but that, at least, will have to wait until after dark.

 

* * *

 

Viewing the rest of the victims’ houses earns him no extra clues, so after he’s done with his little tour of Gotham’s upper neighbourhoods, Slade retreats to a bar on the rougher side of the town to bide his time until nightfall.

He eats, he smokes, he drinks. Around him, waves of people ebb and flow into the building. Workmen coming off the end of their shifts, and other men and women with nowhere else to go. From his table in the furthest corner from the door, Slade listens into their conversations, scanning for even the smallest drop of something useful.

Most of it is the standard for the working class. Complaints about work, wages and overzealous bosses. One fisherman complains loudly and at length about how he and others have had portions of their catches stolen by an unknown thief this past month, with the police seemingly reluctant to do anything about it. Something he puts down to them caring more about the murders of those ‘stuck up rich men’ than the livelihoods of honest workers, but that’s about as close as anyone gets to discussing the topic with which Slade is most concerned. Otherwise it’s just a few rumours about Batman — the city’s new resident myth that had risen to prominence last year after a string of prostitutes were murdered — that he dismisses offhand.

It’s about ten o’clock by the time he decides to call it, polishing off his last drink and slipping his hat back on his head before making his way out of the bar and returning to the Miller house. After a quick scout around the area, Slade chooses one of the end houses on the block to climb up. It’s past eleven now, and the street is completely deserted. Which is good, since the last thing he needs right now is someone calling the police on him.

Or worse, querying why a man of the age he appears to be can scale such a large building with ease.

Up on the rooftops, Slade makes his way slow and quiet back up the row of houses to the Miller residence, then starts to scour the tiles for clues. The moonlight tonight is strong enough that he doesn’t have to risk using a flame to see by, and Slade hums to himself as he kneels directly over where the bedroom window is.

There are marks here, long and sharp, like claws were used to make them. It reminds him of when a cougar he’d once hunted up in the Rocky Mountains had skittered and slid off the edge of a cliff as his bullet took her, leaving long grooves behind in the hard granite. He curls his fingers before fitting them to the marks, and there’s no denying they fit the right shape to be made by a human — though one with a much smaller hand than him.

When Slade lifts his fingers back up, he also gets a whiff of something. A smell that doesn’t fit his current surroundings in any way. _Brine_.

No normal person would ever have been able to pick it up, but he can.

“Curious,” Slade murmurs to himself. There are only a few places in Gotham where this scent could soak into someone’s being that strongly: the docks or the fish markets.

It may not be a strong lead, but it’s certainly a start. The docks are full of places in which a person could hide, avoiding attention from any kind of authority. He should head down there tomorrow, talk to those who work and live in the area. Someone must have seen something.

Right now, however, he needs to look if anymore clues have been left behind.

Going over the rest of the roof nets Slade only more of those claw marks. If he wants to see anything else, he’s going to have to go inside.

Lowering himself down from the roof onto the window ledge is an unexpected way of seeing from the killer’s perspective. Slade uses his knife to crack open the now locked window, then drops through into the bedroom. It’s a mess inside, everything clearly left as it was at the time the police wrapped up their investigation, right down to the large ugly bloodstain on the mattress and parts of the hardwood floor.

He takes his time walking around the room, from the window to the door and back again. Slade looks where he knows most people don’t think to, pulling open every nook and cranny in search of clues. As clinical as the wounds to kill the victims were, if there was emotion involved, the murderer will have left behind some kind of evidence, intentionally or otherwise.

Or maybe not, as twenty-minutes later he’s still stood empty-handed. Just as he’s about to give up, though, Slade catches sight of something just barely poking out between two of the floorboards by the bed.

Bringing out his knife again, he slides the blade in between the wood, and gently, carefully, guides the object back up until he can pinch the edges between two fingers and draw it out the rest of the way himself.

It’s a piece of paper, folded in half, and as he smooths it back to get a view of what’s written on it, Slade one again gets a hefty whiff of saltwater. The words themselves are the biggest point of interest for him, though, as they declare HALY’S CIRCUS is large bold font, alongside an illustration of a tent and elephant.

What on earth?

Slade would almost be tempted to dismiss it as evidence, if it weren’t for the smell clinging to the page. People like the Miller’s went to the opera and ballet for their source of entertainment, not anything so low and crass as a circus, so it’s not likely one of them would have accidently let it slip down here. But then, why would the killer do so?

He thinks for a moment, frowning all the deeper.

A circus would certainly have people with the talent to climb up to a rooftop and then swing themselves down into a house. Acrobats, trapeze artists and the like. A knife thrower might have the talent with a blade to kill as cleanly as the killer has as well, or perhaps a sword swallower.

Curiouser still, this flyer is dated from five years back. If indeed it is a clue to the identity of the killer, what could cause a circus performer to bear such a grudge against a few wealthy families like these ones?

At this point, Slade can’t make heads nor tails of it, but he tucks the flyer away inside his coat for further study later. He’s found all he thinks there is to find here for now; time to head back to his hotel and get some rest before picking the hunt back up again tomorrow.

As he climbs out the window, and then shimmies down the brickwork to the street below, Slade is caught for a moment by what appears to be a shadow moving out of the corner of his eye. Only when he turns his head to look in that direction, there’s nothing there.

Hm.

 

* * *

 

He spends the next two days walking the docks and its surrounding areas, talking to fishermen, sailors and every other person who frequents them alike. Unlike the western states, he has no pre-established contacts here to use as sources of information, and building them takes time he doesn’t currently have, so instead he relies on a mix of friendly outer persona, money and intimidation thanks to his size to get people’s lips moving.

Only there’s very little information to be had. Sure, most everyone has heard of the murders, but the amount of care they have for them tends to vary between ambivalent and morbidly joyful that someone’s ‘finally putting pay to those who sit up top’. So long as the killer stays away from them and theirs, their empathy and interested is limited, and Slade can’t say he’s anywhere near surprised.

On the other hand, a few have heard of Haly’s Circus, but none know of anyone associated with it living in the vicinity, and that actually does surprise him a little. Surely an ex-performer would draw some people’s attention, particularly that of children.

It’s frustrating, and by the third day he’s almost starting to think coming here was nothing more than a red herring. There _has_ to be something else he’s missing. Some other clue to find that will point him in the right direction. Slade’s never failed before, and he certainly doesn’t intend to start now.

Then he approaches a group of loitering street urchins by the fish market, and it’s there he finally finds what it is he’s looking for.

“It’s Batman,” the first kid says with certainty, eyes fixed avidly on the coin Slade is sliding between his fingers when he brings up the murders, “Gotta be.”

Another one of the boys immediately elbows him between the ribs, “Shut up, moron! If it were Batman, he’d ‘ave drank their blood, not left it all over the floor.”

“Batman ain’t no vampire,” a third chirps in, rolling his eyes, “You’re both crazy.”

“Oh yeah?” the second sneers back again, making a show of his rather large front teeth, “If you’re so smart, who do _you_ think it is?”

But before the third can reply, a fourth boy, the smallest one of the group, with dark hair and solemn eyes speaks up quietly, “The ghost.”

All three of the others look at him suddenly. The first, who has a heavy layer of freckles all over his face, shakes his head, “There ain’t no ghost.”

“There is,” the fourth boy insists again, still in the same quiet tone, “I saw ‘im.”

“No you didn’t. Short stack like you, a ghost woulda ate you up if you had.”

“Or cracked you open like a runny egg,” the third one says, grinning now. “I saw a dog like that once. Got run over by a carriage. Most disgusting thing I ever saw. Had its inside bits all on the outside.”

The dark haired kid pales, and that’s about when Slade decides he better step in. As entertaining as their juvenile banter is (and he means that in the most sarcastic way possible) the possibility of relevant information interests him more.

“What ghost?” he asks calmly, focusing his attention entirely on the youngest boy.

The other three shut up at once, likely thanks to the second coin Slade now has rolling through his fingers, while he squirms a little, unable to meet to focus of Slade’s eye with his own. “Just a ghost.” the boy mutters, “I seen him a couple times now. Looks more like a shadow than a regular spook, though. Dressed all in black with real pale skin, and these big gold spectacles on his eyes.”

A curiously specific description.

“Where did you see him?” Slade presses further.

“Up by the old lighthouse. The one they don’t use anymore.” The kid tugs self-consciously at a lock of his hair, “Was only for a couple seconds, like. But I swear he was flying, straight up!”

“I see.”

Slade ponders this for a moment, then decides that considering his lack of other leads at the moment, he may as well check it out. It could just be a child’s overactive imagination, but if it’s not…

“Which way?” he asks.

The kid points northwards, and Slade nods before adding an extra two coins to his hand and passing them over. The other boys are already crowding around him even as Slade turns to leave. If he’s smart, he’ll share them, but Slade doesn’t bother to tell him that. At the very least, if he doesn’t, he might find out who his true friends are out of the group.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time Slade finds the lighthouse the kid was talking about. It’s made of dark stone, built off a small sprig of rocky shore. Once upon a time, it would have been all there was to warn passing ships off Gotham’s rocky coastline, but now it’s been replaced by a larger, brighter lighthouse a little further out to sea, and so has been left to rot by the wayside.

The door at the base is held shut by a rusty looking padlock. Slade circles round it a couple times, examining the stonework before going any further. On some of them, he finds a few familiar looking scratch marks, like the ones on the roof of the Miller house.

Jackpot.

The hunter in Slade immediately wants to break in and get to work, but he knows better than that. If it was a matter of dead or alive, he would go in confidently armed with just the weapons he already has on him, but his client had been specific in saying they wanted the culprit still breathing when he brought them in so that they could be handed over to the courts for judgement, and Slade always try to stick to the brief when he can.

Though, of course, if it comes down to a matter of _his_ life or death, he won’t hesitate to kill, no matter the later blow to his reputation.

Retreating back down the coastline, Slade stops off to buy a few yards of sturdy rope from a craftsman, then heads towards the nearest telegraph office to get a message sent off as quick as possible to the client. Nothing too detailed of course, just a location and an advisory that they come after dark to avoid too much gawking by the locals.

Then he goes back to the lighthouse, sets his knife to the padlock, and as quickly and quietly as he can, breaks in.

It stinks inside. Of damp mould, cobwebs and rot. However long ago the lighthouse was abandoned, it’s clear to Slade that no one has been by to maintain the place in years. He keeps his knife in hand — and maintains a firm grip on his cane in other — as he sets to exploring it.

There’s nothing on the bottom level, but he expects that. The killer’s clearly been scaling the building to enter in and out of the top, so it makes sense they probably sleep up there as well. All the better to not be found or noticed.

Except, that is, for the eagle-eyed attention of a ten-year old.

Slade grimaces at the prospect of climbing the narrow twisting staircase to the top. He’d be hard pressed to defend against an ambush in there, especially one from above, but there really is no choice. He can’t climb up the slick stone outside without making noise to give himself away first, so he’ll just have to take it slow and steady, that’s all.

Step by careful step, Slade starts to make his way upwards.

More cobwebs lend extra testament to how long this place has been empty, and that the killer doesn’t come downstairs. Slade grimaces as the sticky strands cling to his face and hat, but voices no complaint (though he does resolve to step any spider he sees along the way). Sound will carry so easily in this place that nothing is worth the risk, and besides, he’s been through a lot worse.

The middle floor proves empty, too, except for more piles of abandoned clutter, and so Slade reaches the uppermost level without issue.

This has to be it, he thinks. Inside he’ll either find his bounty or, at the very least, a place to lie in wait and set a trap for him. For a moment, all he does is regard the door — the rusted iron handle on the front of it, and listen.

No sound comes from within.

Slade considers this for a moment, then carefully leans his cane against the nearest wall and from inside his coat draws out his pistol instead. Alive might be the brief on this one, but he’s not above dealing wounds in order to get this over with hard and fast. A man can live through a shattered kneecap (and shattered eardrums for that matter) easily enough, but Slade can’t survive a slit throat. He doesn’t want to give whoever’s inside any chance to use their knives on him first.

Taking a step back, he braces himself, then with one single, power kick, breaks the door open and forces his way inside.

At first, Slade sees nothing beyond the dark, dingy interior, piles of junk and what looks like a nest made from various coloured blankets. But then a stray snatch of light from the mostly dirt-covered window glints off something gold to the left of him, and he’s barely able to turn towards it in time to slap away the knife that would have buried itself in his throat otherwise.

Just as the kid who’d directed him here had said, the man is pale-skinned and wearing all black, making it difficult to get a clear outline of him against the gloom. But for all that Slade has one less eye than the standard, he’s still able to see more than most, and doesn’t hesitate to point his pistol downwards at the man’s right leg.

The sound of the gunshot in such close quarters is cacophonous, like standing inside a thunderstorm. Slade’s ears ring with it, but unlike most normal men he knows he’ll recover quick enough. His opponent on the other hand?

The man’s cry of pain is lost to the echoing noise. Slade can make out more details of his appearance now; black hair to match his clothes and a lean, slender build. But that brief observation is all he gives himself time for, conscious of the necessity of bringing this to an end as quickly as possible.

He lunges forward at his opponent, slamming him back against the curved wall. Blood from the man’s leg leaves a red trail on the floor, and Slade doesn’t hesitate to slam his own knee into the injury even as a clawed hand swipes at his face. He manages to twist his head out of the way to avoid it — mostly. At least enough that the cuts that go up his cheek and over his forehead are shallow rather than the eye-gouging horrors they were meant to be.

Suppressing his own snarl of pain — while his opponent yelps at the added hit to his leg, Slade stabs forward with his knife, meaning to impale the man through the shoulder into the wall, but he’s slippery as an eel, contorting his body to avoid it in a way that hardly seems possible. Slade grunts as the knife hits unyielding stone instead, sending reverberations echoing through the metal and up into his arm, and doesn’t manage to pull back quick enough to avoid the following strike of claws against his elbow and along his forearm.

Thank God for his duster. The leather does its job in protecting his flesh, though suffers itself in the process. He’ll probably have to retire it after this, and maybe make his client foot the bill for getting a new one in addition to his usual fee.

Realising that attacking the covered areas of Slade’s body isn’t going to get him anywhere fast, the killer goes again for Slade’s face, and this time avoiding it forces him far enough back that the man manages to slip free, staggering towards the other side of the room in an attempt to find more space to move.

Unfortunately for him, though, Slade isn’t in the habit of letting anyone else dictate the circumstances of a fight. He immediately charges after him, shaking off any remaining jitters from hitting the wall and closing in fast. It’s hard to tell with the spectacles (more like goggles, really) on his face, but shock registers on the man’s face at the speed with which Slade pursues him. He throws another knife, which Slade just barely avoids — losing his hat in the process — before tackling him down to the floor.

They roll for a second, but largely thanks to his greater weight and strength, Slade easily comes out on top. He shoves his gun back in its holster, before instead using that hand to grab his opponent by his long black hair. With the hold, he forces his head up, then slams it back down against the hard wooden floor.

Once, twice. Three times, it takes, before the man goes limp. But Slade still waits a moment to be sure before allowing himself to think he’s safe. That was more difficult than it should have been against someone who, so far as he’s seen anyway, kills mostly by sneaking up and murdering people in their beds.

So fast and limber, all thanks to some possible training from a circus? Slade snorts, it hardly seems possible, but under fairer circumstances (without the element of surprise and close quarters) this man might actually have been able to keep up with _him_.

Then he pulls back, and — stiffening at the sudden sensation of wetness soaking into his shirt — realises even that isn’t giving his opponent enough credit.

Looking down, Slade can see the handle of one of the killer’s knives sticking out from between two of his lower ribs. And as soon as he does, a wave of pain spreads out from the wound.

How the hell did he not notice that when it happened? Was it the adrenaline that made him miss the blade going in, or was it simply because his opponent was that fast? Maybe the sharpness of the blade had a part to play, too, and Slade knows he should count himself lucky that the strike didn’t go higher on his body. If it had hit his heart, or his lungs…

A soft groan distracts him from the thought. Underneath him, the man is stirring, his fingers twitching, seemingly starting to come around already from being knocked out.

Slade grimaces. First things first, he needs to restrain his prisoner, then he’ll deal with the wound.

After all, he’s lived through worse.

 

* * *

 

The rope Slade bought earlier does a sturdy job of restraining the man at the wrists and ankles — though as Slade works to disarm him, he thinks he may have to reevaluate calling him that. The face beneath the goggles is too _young_ to rightly be referred to as a man, perhaps only sixteen or seventeen at most, and the paleness of his skin strikes an even harder balance between being disturbing or alluring when combined with the revelation of his fine-boned features.

Slade drops the clawed gloves atop a table in the room, and so too every knife he can find. The kid was carrying a damn arsenal in his pockets it seems, and Slade’s had enough of painful surprises for one night.

Next, he turns his attention to the pile of blankets on the floor. They won’t be sanitary, but the risk of infection isn’t something Slade’s had to worry about for years. Stopping the bleeding is the only thing necessary to allow his body to start healing, and so he tears a few strips from the cleanest looking one before, with a pained grimace, drawing the knife out from the wound.

The blood instantly starts to flow quicker. Slade has to unbutton his shirt so that he can press the first wad of cloth against it cleanly, and also to better be able to wrap it.

He’s just working out the exact semantics of how to do that one-handed when a hoarse voice speaks up from behind him.

“Who are you?”

Turning round, Slade looks at the boy, and is once again startled by the sight of something that shouldn’t be possible.

The eyes looking back at him are _yellow._ And not the weak, sickly yellow that sometimes consumes the whites of someone suffering from jaundice either. That at least would be something Slade could explain, but no. They’re a bright, _golden_ yellow; filling the boy’s irises with a shade that normally only belongs to cats or birds rather than men, and the longer Slade stares at them, the more they seem to glow eerily in the dark, reflecting what little light there is here in the cramped upper room of the lighthouse back at him like sparks of flame.

“I don’t recognise you,” the boy continues, meeting his shock with mild curiosity and nothing more, “Are you new?”

“New?” Slade finds himself repeating, his brain somehow catching onto that before anything else.

The boy blinks owlishly, which only serves to highlight the strangeness of his eyes, “To the Court.”

Court… The only courts Slade knows of are oceans away, located in those countries that still have such things as kings and queens. But the boy sounds perfectly American in every inflection. Perhaps not from around here exactly, but American still.

_What the hell?_

In the space of ten seconds, this job has gone from almost routine to something else entirely. Slade doesn’t like it one bit, and so handles the situation in the only way he knows how.

By pretending it isn’t one.

“Sorry, kid,” he says, adopting a carefully nonchalant tone as he turns his attention back to wrapping the wound in his chest, “But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Confusion is the boy’s reaction, “You… don’t?”

“Afraid not.” As he ties off the bandage, Slade can’t help but think as well how strange it is — considering there’s a bullet in his leg and he had his head slammed against the floor a few times — that the boy doesn’t seem to be in pain or at least dazed right now. “Never been a part of any court, unless you want to count some tribes I spent time with in Africa.”

Those golden eyes narrow, and this time the boy’s voice is noticeably sharper and more cold as he asks again, “Who are you?”

“You can call me Slade,” he answers, “For as long as it matters, anyway. How about you, kid? You got a name?”

“... Talon.” the boy eventually responds, after a long pause. “If you’re not with the Court, then why are you here?”

Slade raises an eyebrow at the question. It seems perfectly obvious to him, but all right.

“Simple answer, it’s my job. I’m a bounty hunter, kid,” he explains, “Hired by some very rich, powerful people to make sure you don’t go killing anymore of their friends.”

The boy, Talon, stares at him a moment longer, then snorts before abruptly twisting his lips into what’s almost a pitying smirk. “Oh, I see,” he says amusedly, “You’re disposable.”

Slade’s spine goes rigid. Not at the implication — of course he’s disposable to them, most everyone else in the world is to wealthy men like that — but at the tone with which the boy says it. There’s a total, utter conviction in his voice, and that’s worrying.

“Excuse me?” he asks, dangerously.

The boy shrugs, or at least attempts to from where he’s laid on his side on the floor. “They got tired of sending their own people after me, so instead they hired you. It won’t be a loss to them if you die trying to bring me in, and even if you succeed, they can just kill you themselves afterwards and no one will be any the wiser.”

Slade has had a lot of people try to convince him in a lot of different ways not to hand them over to the authorities before, or indeed, not to kill them, but this? This is a new one, widely separated from bribes and revenge threats from other outlaws.

“Strange practice, to hire a bounty hunter and then kill him for doing his job.” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Not if you don’t want him to tell anyone else what he found,” Talon replies, without missing a beat. His smile widens, edging on unhinged, “And no matter how good you are, I’m worth far more to them than your life.”

Slade takes a moment to absorb this, then nods. “All right, kid,” he turns round, shirt still hanging open beneath his coat, to pick a knife up from the table. His own knife, with a thick heavy blade meant for hunting and skinning, rather than one of the boy’s skinny little scalpels. “Here’s the deal. I don’t appreciate when people try to play coy with me over anything, least of all threats to my life. So either you can shut up, or you can start being frank with me about whatever the hell you think is going on here.”

Talon cocks his head at him, birdlike, “And if I don’t do either?”

“Then you and I will get a lot more familiar in ways you won’t like.” Slade says, brandishing the knife. “You already have one hole in your leg, I don’t think you can afford a second.”

“I can afford a lot more than you,” the boy hisses back suddenly, baring his teeth at him. Slade tenses on reflex, but then the burst of aggression drops from Talon’s face as quickly as it came, and his voice goes back to being soft and mild the way it was at the start of the conversation as he dips his head down in a nod towards his chest, “I’ll answer whatever questions you want me to.”

Well, that was unnerving, but even so, Slade knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Tell me more about this court of yours.” he orders first.

“The Court of Owls,” the boy intones pleasantly, words he’s clearly learned by rote, “A secret order made up of Gotham’s rich and powerful. They control the city; everyone and everything in it.”

A secret order... Those, at least, are things Slade is a little more familiar with. He’s both killed and killed for them, in the past.

“And let me guess,” Slade reaches up to run his fingers through his beard thoughtfully, “You’re going to tell me they’re the ones who hired me to catch you?”

“Probably.” Talon answers, twisting a little against the bonds Slade has left him in. Again, there’s no hint of pain as he stretches out his legs. “They want me back, and they know the police are no match for what they’ve created.”

“Back?”

“I’m an investment.”

There’s something so flippant, so brazen about the way he says it, that Slade can’t help but be annoyed. It reminds him again that the person he’s dealing with here is young, as well as potentially unhinged.

“That’s not very informative,” he replies, stepping forward and making a show of holding the knife in one hand and some more scraps of torn up blanket in the other, “The people you’ve murdered, they were part of this Court, I suppose?”

The boy goes still as Slade gets closer to him, golden eyes flicking up and down his body. He nods, “Yes.”

Slade kneels, reaching for the leg he shot after putting down the bandages. Let the kid sweat a little, wondering what he’s going to do. Especially as he brings the knife forward, dangerously closer to his skin. “Yet you spared their children, and their servants.”

Talon clenches his jaw, “They’re not part of it. Not yet. They can still be…” he falters, “Still be good.”

With a clever twist of his write, Slade sets the blade to the leather of the boy’s suit, neatly slicing through it to get to the wound beneath, only he doesn’t see what he expects to see upon doing so. In fact, he sees no wound at all. Just smooth, white, seamless flesh, marred only by bloodstains.

If it weren’t for the existence of those stains, it would be like Talon was never shot at all. Slade can’t fathom it, this perfect, impossibly fast healing. Even he couldn’t recover so swiftly from such an injury. Hell, even a simple cut would take an hour or so to close for him, and the stab wound the boy inflicted on his chest will likely take all night, but this…

“I told you,” Talon says quietly, “I’m an investment.”

“How?” Slade asks sharply, trying to recover, “ _How_?”

“I don’t…” The boy shifts a little, and Slade reflexively clamps a hand down on his leg to keep him still. “I don’t entirely know. They have a substance, a metal —- they call it electrum. When used properly it turns people into _this_. Makes them like… like me.”

“Like you,” Slade repeats, turning his head so he can look at Talon’s face again.

Those golden eyes are now slightly glazed, his features pinched. Pain that has nothing to do with the hand Slade has on his leg covers the boy’s unnaturally pale face now, and like a gate has been opened, he begins to speak more, hard and fast.

“They killed my parents! They _stole_ me from my home. Took me to their sanctuary, and they… they hurt me, tortured me. The things they did…” Talon shakes his head wildly, black hair flying in every direction, “Over and over, until they broke me. I was their weapon, made to kill for them. Anyone they didn’t like, anyone they saw as a threat to their vision for the city’s future. Men, women, _children_ … it didn’t matter, I had to kill them. I killed so... s-so many…” His voice breaks, becoming smaller, weaker, “I couldn’t… I _can’t_ … not anymore. I don’t want to kill for them anymore! I don’t want to hurt innocent people, I don’t want to…”

Slade isn’t sure what makes him do it, but he lifts the hand off Talon’s leg, putting it to his hair instead. “Easy, kid,” he replies, just letting his fingers rest there, “Easy, just breathe.”

Talon pants, eyes wide and uncertain, “Don’t give me back to them,” he begs, “ _Don’t_.”

Normally, Slade wouldn’t even consider such a request, but there’s something about this one, the way he talks combined with his appearance, that actually makes him inclined to believe what the boy’s saying.

Unfortunately for Talon, though, Slade has made a contract, one for which he’s already received payment in full, and he always fulfills his contracts. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have the reputation he does. “Sorry, kid,” he starts to say, “But—”

“They’re going to kill you!” the boy snaps, mood swinging again in desperation, “You’ve seen me, you know what I am! When they come for me, you’ll die.”

Slade narrows his eye. He doesn’t doubt Talon’s lying about that either.

Warningly, he tightens his fingers in the boy’s hair (unexpectedly soft, despite how unkempt it looks). Talon goes still instantly, in a way Slade suspects might be conditioned before he whispers, in a voice that’s soft and broken, “Please, listen to me. I’m trying to save your life.”

“Only to save your own,” Slade points out.

Talon shakes his head, “They won’t kill me. Not in a way that sticks. They’ll retrain me, make me…” he winces, arms flexing — Slade leans over far enough to take a cursory look at the arm bindings and make sure they’re holding — before sagging back. “I don’t want to be their weapon again, I want to be _me_.”

Yes, Slade suspects he does. He knows an uncomfortable amount himself of what it means to be expected to serve wholly and utterly at the behest of another without question, only in his case, he had enough freedom to take what they had to give him and leave. He was never a slave, and barely ever a servant. He’d used the government as much as they’d tried to use him, before he’d turned his back and left them in the dust.

Now they leave him alone, if only because they know trying to bring him in will be more trouble for them than it’s worth.

“Sorry, kid,” he still says, “But I can’t just let you go. I took a contract, and I always complete my contracts from beginning to end. You can’t change my mind on that.”

“Always?” Talon repeats, eyes searching his face for some hint of sympathy and finding none.

“Always,” Slade confirms. He moves back, now that it’s clear the boy needs no patching up from him. “I will, however, take your warning under advisement.”

“You should,” Talon says, voice hardening before he settles back down, this time with his eyes closed, “It’s the only way you’re going to survive this.”

Slade grimaces now it can’t be seen, returning to the other side of the room to settle and wait for evening to fall. Seems he has some thinking to do.

 

* * *

 

A further two hours pass before Slade finally hears the sound of horses approaching outside. In that time, he and Talon have exchanged little in the way of more words, though he’s often caught the boy staring at him whenever he thinks Slade isn’t looking. Or whenever he comes over to check the ropes holding him — which was more often than not, knowing what he does about Talon now.

Assassin, that’s what he’s settled on as the appropriate term for what the boy is. One taken and conditioned to serve the whims of this Court of Owsl since youth.

Approaching the grime covered window, Slade uses a rag to wipe enough of it clean that he can get a good look at what’s approaching them outside: one carriage pulled by a team of four horses, and one heavy wagon of the sort typicalled used by the police. Each has lamps hanging off the corners where the drivers are sitting, and some of the single riders trotting alongside carry them as well.

It’s a show of force to be sure. Though whether it’s meant purely in anticipation of picking up a dangerous murderer like the boy, or to be used against Slade as well, remains to be seen.

“Come on,” he says, once he’s got a wide enough scope of the situation, “Showtime, kid.”

He crosses over to where Talon’s laid out on the floor, still in the exact same position as earlier, and cuts the ropes holding his legs before hauling him up onto his feet.

“They’re going to kill you,” the boy reminds him again, back to same mild, unnerving tone he used at the start now that he’s calmed back down.

“We’ll see about that,” Slade responds, checking his pockets and sleeves again to make sure he’s got everything he needs equipped. “I’m not so easy to kill. You should know that already, Talon.”

“Dick.”

“What?” He raises an eyebrow as he looks down at the back of the boy’s head.

“That’s my real name, not Talon.” Pale fingers curl into fists beneath Slade’s own. “If you’re going to hand me back to them, at least call me that.”

“Did they make you change it?” Slade asks, out of curiosity as they walk.

“Talon is the title for all their servants,” Talon, or Dick as the case may be, tells him. “I wasn’t the first, and I won’t be the last. Not unless I stop them.”

“Hm,” Slade opens the door, then guides the boy down the stairs with one hand placed firmly on his wrists and the other on his shoulder. “Good to know.”

Just before they exit the door at the base of the lighthouse, Slade stops and pulls the boy back to him.

“This will be difficult for you, I know,” he says, calmly, and right in against Dick’s ear, “But understand that what I’m about to do is nothing personal against you, or them. So if you make it difficult for me, I won’t hesitate to make you suffer for it.”

“Them—?” Dick starts to say, but before he can go any further, Slade cuts him off by opening the door and shoving him out of it.

Outside, the carriage and wagon have just finished drawing up. The police constables on the horses have dismounted, and one of them moves quickly to the carriage door to open it and pull down the built-in steps. Slade watches as the men who hired him step out from within. First poncy Richard Orchard, and then the more reserved Thurston Moody. Both are old and greying, with cunning eyes and extravagant wealth pouring out between every stitch of their clothing. Moody even has a ivory-headed cane clutched in his hand as they walk over toward Slade, followed by a close semicircle of armed policemen.

Already, the hairs are starting to raise on the back of his neck.

“Wilson, my good man! I see you found him then,” Orchard says, “Excellent show.” His smile is wide, but also painfully fake. It shows too many teeth, like that of an animal scenting prey.

“Eventually,” Slade answers, paying more attention to the way Dick’s spine has gone rigid than anything else, and how a faint tremble is now making itself known in his shoulders. “I’m starting to think I should have charged you extra, for all the difficulty he put me through.”

“You get your agreed fee, Wilson,” Moody cuts in, evidently having no patience for banter, “That’s all, now hand him over.”

The nearest constables start to move forward, but Slade stays standing where he is, and keeps his hand fixed on Dick’s shoulder. “You don’t seem very surprised,” he observes.

“I beg your pardon?” Orchard asks, still smiling.

“At the boy,” Slade responds mildly, “You don’t seem surprised. It’s not every day you encounter someone with yellow eyes.”

The two men look at each other. Moody is the one who replies, “I just assumed he has some sort of disease, jaundice or the like.”

“Jaundice affects the whites of the eyes, not the irises.” Slade points out.

Orchard’s smile falters a bit, but not entirely. “Well, how about that, you learn something new every day,” he says, “Now if we can be on our way…”

All the constables are moving forward now, their semicircle formation closing in around him. Slade carefully doesn’t react to it.

“What will you do with him now you have him?” he asks.

“Why… subject him to justice,” Orchard raises his eyebrows, “After all, the boy did kill our friends.”

“Yes, your friends.” Slade intones, “Funny how you failed to mention that part to me in the briefing.”

“Did we?” All humour is gone suddenly. Orchard tightens his jaw, “Really, Wilson, I don’t see why it matters. Your part in this is done, you just need to—”

“Oh enough of this!” Moody snaps then, patience evidently at the end, which is exactly what Slade was aiming for to happen. In the next moment, he shows his true colours, and there’s no further doubt that Dick was telling the truth to him. “It’s cold and wet, and the shoreline stinks. Kill him already, men; shoot through the Talon if you have to, it will survive.”

In the brief moment of hesitation that follows from the police, Slade is already moving. Yanking Dick sideways and out of immediate firing range. Bullets hit the stone where they were standing a second later, by which time Slade has already pulled out his own gun and is firing back.

He drops four of the constables before the rest can so much as blink. Another goes down as he scrambles for cover behind the wagon, and Slade grins with feral delight as the remaining three attempt to get out of the way as well. Orchard and Moody are also trying to flee, though in their case, that means darting back for their carriage while hollering at the driver to get a move on.

This stretch of rock road isn’t wide enough to so easily turn a team of four around on, though. In fact, it’s nearly impossible.

Taking the opportunity now that he has it, Slade stops shooting just long enough to slip one of the skinny little scalpel blades he took from Dick earlier back into the boy’s hands. He has them free in seconds, and slides into a graceful crouch at his side — though not without some visible shock at the rapid turnaround.

“What are you doing?” Dick asks, staring up at him.

“Showing these idiots what happens when someone tries to cross me,” Slade replies, with pleasure. Turning his head, he nods at the struggling carriage. “Well, kid? You can’t tell me those two aren’t on your list as well.”

Dick blinks, his expression shuttering for a moment before going deadly blank. With no further encouragement needed from Slade, he stands up with the blade in hand and, moving like the shadow he is, prowls away from him towards the carriage.

Finishing off the rest of the constables is easy after that. Slade shoots, reloads, then shoots again. Those that run he chases down, and while normally he’d take little pleasure in offing men of the law, in this case he can feel confident that they probably deserve it.

After he’s made sure the last isn’t going to run off blabbing to anyone, he walks back towards the carriage. The driver is now slumped over the seat lifeless, while the horses paw the ground in restless distress. As Slade gets closer, he can also make out blood dripping down the steps to the door, and arrives just in time to see Dick emerge from it with his hands stained red.

“Better?” he asks him, calmly.

The boy points the knife he’s carrying towards him, “You helped me.” he says.

“I helped myself.” Slade replies, “But I suppose you could say that, too.”

“Why?”

Slade gives the kid a look, then rolls his eye. “You were right.”

Dick blinks, “Right?”

“About them.” he nods towards the dark interior of the carriage. “And if you were right about them, that means you were telling the truth about everything else as well.”

The knife wavers, its point lowering a moment before snapping back up again. “This won’t be the end,” Dick says.

“No,” Slade agrees, “Probably not.”

“They’ll know you interfered if they don’t find your body with the rest of them. They’ll come after you.”

Slade snorts, “People have been coming after me for years, I’m hardly worried about a bunch of rich morons who already lost their best weapon. I doubt they’ll follow me outside the city, either.”

“Outside the city?” the boy asks.

“Mm, back west. It’s where I’ve been spending most of my time the past few years. You might want to consider it too, kid. It’s better than here, at least. More space, less people, and a whole lot more freedom.”

“With you?” Dick asks, seemingly without thought, and well, Slade hadn’t been thinking that either, but now that the notion’s in his head…

The boy is obviously extremely capable, fast and strong. Intelligent, too, and though he expressed a desire not to harm ‘innocents’, he’s clearly not shy about planting a knife in someone either.

All of those things are skills Slade could potentially use.

“Maybe, if you want.” he says, careful not to appear too gung ho about the idea right away, “Or at least, I guess you could tag along with me until you figure out exactly what it is you want.”

“What I want?”

“You said you want to be _you_ , not their weapon.” Slade folds his arms as he looks at the boy, “It helps if you know what that is, beyond just not doing what they tell you to.”

Dick’s shoulders slump slightly, and his eyes cast downwards to the ground, all of which tells Slade his guess is accurate. Past killing the ones who are a threat to him now, the boy has no plan for the future.

Turning, he walks to catch the reins of one of the other police horses wandering around. It’s a solidly built chestnut gelding, and Slade spends a minute stroking its neck to calm it again before going any further. When he does look back, Dick has dropped the knife down to hang by his side, and looks even more lost than he did earlier.

Inwardly, he sighs. “Look, kid,” Slade says, as kindly as he can manage, “You don’t have to decide right away if you don’t want to. I won’t be leaving the city until the morning, at least. So how about you just come with me for now since this hideout of yours is no longer safe, have something to eat, then figure the rest of it out after some sleep?”

Dick looks up at him, and there’s hunger now in his eyes. Slade belatedly remembers the fisherman complaining about his stolen catch a few days ago, and idly wonders if it had been anything to do with him.

“Okay,” the boy says, “But no ropes.”

“No ropes,” Slade agrees, smiling crookedly. He adjusts the stirrups on the horse’s saddle before mounting. “Come on, we’ll go get my stuff from my hotel first, then find another place to stay where none of those bastards will know to look for us.”

The knife vanishes into the belt on Dick’s suit as he walks over, then lightly vaults onto the horse’s back behind Slade. It’s a little thrill to have something so dangerous sitting behind him, but Slade carefully doesn’t comment on it. Only makes a mental note that he will have to get Dick in some less conspicuous clothes soon, if they’re actually going to be able to leave the city by train like he’s thinking tomorrow.

“Here, by the way,” he says, as he nudges the horse into a walk back down the road towards Gotham. From one of his pockets, Slade draws out the flyer for Haly’s Circus and hands it back to Dick. “Think you dropped this at the Miller house.”

There’s a sharp inhalation by his ear, and the boy reaches to take it carefully from him on hastily cleaned fingers. “I thought I lost it,” he says.

“It’s important to you?” Slade asks, already knowing the answer.

“My parents and I… we were performers at Haly’s. Trapeze artists.”

Another guess proved right. Slade allows himself a smug moment of pride before continuing, “Is that so? Well, we’ve got a solid bit of riding ahead of us. Maybe you can tell me more about it along the way.”

He doesn’t get an immediate response this time, but that’s all right. Slade has the strong feeling he and Dick will going to be getting to know each other much better in the future regardless, and all in all, this isn’t the worst outcome he could have had from coming to Gotham.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)


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